Falling (29 page)

“I didn’t mean it.” His words were broken up, part swallowed by the sobs, and he sucked in a few quick gasping breaths, still grasping his sister’s hand.

“What, honey? Didn’t mean what?”

“I’m…” breathing hard, then goes at the words with a run, the only way he can get them out. “Frey, I’m not, am I? Please say I’m not.” He had pulled her closer, without realising he was doing it, so that his head almost rests on her shoulder. He can smell the coconut shampoo she uses, that scent that is just her.

“I don’t understand, Rich.”

He closed his eyes, nestling in so that her hair grazed his face. “Please tell me I’m not a monster, Frey.”

He had watched Libby through the bright lit window, the way he had a hundred times before. Lithe, swaying like she’s dancing to her own private tune, her chestnut hair tied up in a low knot, grazing the nape of her neck, white pressed shirt, black trousers. He watched her, glancing at the clock, leaning out of view, rising again, hands full of plates, opening a cupboard, stacking the plates onto shelves. It was snowing heavily, thick torpid flakes that snuck their way into his collar, melting, trickling ice cold water between his shoulder blades. He had stood in the shadow of the fence, where he had stood so many nights before, just watching.

It was the car that had done it, his r-reg Ford Fiesta, shuddering to a halt on narrow country lanes. Less than a mile from Cardiff airport. He didn’t have his phone with him, had left it on his bed that morning. Had sat there for a while wondering what it was that he should do. Then he had seen the winglights of a plane, low overhead, gliding in for a landing. He would go to the airport. His father should be back now, and if he wasn’t he shouldn’t be long. He would go to the airport and wait for him. It had been late, around 9 o’clock, but it was a summer evening, sky just shifting to sepia. It would be a pleasant walk. He had set off, tucking into the hedges when cars came by, thinking about his father, surprised to see him, a look of pleasure, that he can show off his son. That perhaps he’ll suggest they go for a drink. They’d never done that. Maybe he’d take him onto his plane, let him sit in the seat.

He had got to the airport, was pushing his way through a middle aged tour group with their rollalong suitcases, their harried expressions, when he saw his father. He was wearing his pilot’s uniform, a smile lighter than he had ever seen before. He was holding her hand. Richard had stopped, pulled up sharp in amongst the tutting and sighing tourists.

She was young, not much older than Richard himself. She was pretty and slender and had a face made for smiling.

He had stood, as they walked right by him. As they slipped into the car park. As his father pulled her in, kissing her.

Had felt the anger clawing at the base of his skull, tasting something in his mouth, green and bitter. Had wanted to run after them, pull the girl away from his father, say to her, you think he’s so great? He’s married. He has kids. And he’s done this before. Loads of times.

He had followed his father, the next time he left the house throwing out some ill thought out, unlikely excuse. Hadn’t been able to stop himself. Had driven his car, the one he had gotten repaired himself, never telling anyone that there was anything wrong with it, hanging back on the M4, his father’s Mercedes only just in sight, towards Swansea and the setting sun. Had followed him to her house.

After that he just couldn’t seem to stop. He didn’t know why. But even when his father wasn’t there, he would go. Just to see. Found the back entrance, the shadows by the fence that fell just so. She was attractive in a careless kind of way. He would dream about her, looking at him the way she looked at his father. After a while he searched out her number, taking it from his father’s phone while he showered. Had distant thoughts of talking to her. But when the time came, he couldn’t. It was enough to hear her voice though, that lightly trilling ‘hello’, said like she really wanted to hear from you. Like she was pleased that you had called. So he had called again. And again. And again.

He knew it wasn’t normal. He knew it wasn’t right. But then, what his father was doing wasn’t right either. So how much worse could this be? Really? And he was lonely. He was so bloody lonely. He had friends, of course, if you could call them that. Guys that he had gone to school with, that he still saw now in college. They would hang out. Have a laugh. But he couldn’t talk to them. Couldn’t talk to anyone. Had tried occasionally to talk to his mother. But she could never listen, her head always seemingly so full of his father, of where he was, what he was doing. It was like she was obsessed with him, like he was all she wanted, even above her own kids.

He had got angry with her one day, after another failed attempt at a conversation. Had snapped. Throwing out something about his father’s girlfriend. He had even told her about the lockbox, the picture, the receipts, found after many hours of searching. Had done it so that she would have to listen. Had seen her face, her world tumbling out from under her. Felt terrible after. But still, he had reasoned to himself, at least things would change now. His mother would deal with it. She would yell at his father and his father would stop and then there wouldn’t be this anxiety, this cloud hanging over their family all of the damn time, and then maybe one of them would listen when he spoke. But instead there was nothing, just a choking ball of silence.

So he had gone back to his father’s girlfriend. Watching. Wondering what the hell it was that she had that could so efficiently capture his father’s attention that he never would.

Libby had been sitting at the kitchen table, pulling on her work shoes. The light dancing off them. She would leave soon. He would wait until she was gone, then he would slip away. Just like he always did.

But then the fence behind him shook. Richard started, heart thumping.

The black and white cat dropped soundlessly onto the thick snow, stopped, looking up at him questioningly. He pressed back into the fence. Then it turned, trotting along the path, to the patio doors and the bright light of the kitchen. A meow, plaintive and unearthly.

She stopped what she was doing, she looked up, squinting to see into the darkness beyond the snow. A smile, pushing herself to her feet, reaching to the kitchen counter for a key, twisting it in the lock, pulling the door open.

“Hey Charlie-boy. Come on in.” Reached down, scrubbing the cat behind the ears, smiling so brightly. “You want some food, mister?”

Turned back into the kitchen, the cat dancing and winding around her legs, almost tripping her, and she laughed a sparkling laugh.

The door hanging open.

He wasn’t going to go anywhere, wasn’t going to move. But the door was open, it was beckoning him, like she wanted him to go in, and without knowing what he was doing he had felt his feet unstick from the wells of snow, carry him forward. She wasn’t looking at him, her back was turned, and he walked toward the light, pulled, the warmth from the kitchen caressing him and he was so cold. Stepping inside.

He didn’t know what he was expecting, hadn’t thought that far ahead.

She spun, shoulders spiking, and the look on her face wasn’t the one he’d been seeing in his dreams. It was fear instead.

“Who are you?”

He just stood there, and it seemed that his mouth had been stoppered up. Because he knows her so well, how can it be possible that she doesn’t even know his name? So he stood there, dripping melting snow onto her kitchen floor, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, until finally he managed to squeeze out “Richard” like that will answer everything.

“Get out.” Her voice was all hard edges, eyes flashing. Her hands at her sides, knotted into fists, and it was all so far from where he imagined it.

So he raised his hands. Meant to show her that there was nothing there, no weapon, that he’s not a danger to her, so that she’ll calm down and she’ll listen to him, and then they’ll talk and then it will all be all right. But he must have done it wrong, moved too fast, because instead of calming down she flew at him, her nails catching his cheek, grating the flesh with a stinging pain. Her narrow hands gripping his wrist, twisting it around so that it throbs, and he can feel himself being pulled down.

And he pulled away, because now he was frightened and now he wanted to run. So he yanked his arm backwards with all his might, and even though she was strong, she couldn’t hold onto him. Letting go. Stumbled backwards, an “oh” of surprise, and Richard felt a wash of relief, half-turning towards the still open door.

Then there was a thud, bone on granite.

Afterwards it was the sound that would replay, over and over in his head. Afterwards he wouldn’t be able to remember how long he had stood there, how long it was before he sank to his knees, gripping her by the shoulders, begging her to wake. But she didn’t. She just stared at him, eyes flecked with the horror.

He would remember that he cried, sobbing, wrenching tears, for the girl lying dead on the floor, for what he had done.

And he would remember the sound of the key, grinding in the lock. The squeal of the front door. Slow, uncertain footsteps.

“Lib?”

He had been sitting on the floor, curled up beside the girl, almost touching her but not quite. Had heard his father’s voice as if from a long way away.

“Lib? Are you…”

Then he was standing at the kitchen door, staring at the girl, at his son.

“Dad.” Richard remembered reaching out to him, pleading. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to…”

His father wasn’t looking at him, was looking at his girlfriend. Strands of hair had unwound themselves from her bun, falling into her eyes. His father crouched, reaching out a shaking hand, brushing the hair aside, touching the soft of her cheek. Then, in a strangled voice that Richard had never heard from him before, “She’s dead.”

“I didn’t mean to, Dad. Honest. I was just, she went for me, and I was just trying to push her off…”

He didn’t look at Richard, growled. “Shut up.”

Then he stood up and was gone.

Richard wouldn’t remember how long he was alone, left with the consequences of his actions. Looking back it would seem to have been a lifetime. Then there were footsteps again, but from the other direction this time, and his father coming in, hair white with snow.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

He still wasn’t looking at Richard, was still staring at the girl. “We have to move her.” His voice poured liquid hatred.

“I…”

“You want to go to prison? You want to be known as a murderer?”

Couldn’t speak, shook his head.

“Then fucking move.”

He crouched again, over his girlfriend. Richard pushed himself up, too afraid to do anything else, and reached out a tentative hand towards her.

“No. Don’t you fucking touch her.”

His father, pushing the hair back behind her ear, slipped his hands underneath her, lifting her, a sleeping child. Her head lolled onto his chest, she’s so tired. Leaving behind a dark smear of blood. Pushed himself up slowly. Crying. He turned, walking with her out into the night, pulling Richard along behind him. He had moved his Mercedes, had pulled it around into the carpark, positioned it close to the gate, boot open. He laid her down, so gently, Snow White in her glass coffin. Stood there for a moment, staring, then, without looking at his son, “Get in.”

They drove in silence, and, although it couldn’t have been far, the trip took them a lifetime. Pulling in to a copse of trees, hidden from the road, turning off the lights, turning off the engine. His father picking her up like she was no weight at all, cradling her, they walk through the driving snow, along the cycle path above the iced river, walking and walking and walking, and then they stop.

“What are we doing, Dad?”

In a far off voice, “She likes it here.”

He pushed his way through undergrowth, balancing on the precipitous bank, seems inevitable that he will fall, that the tragedy of their night will be compounded further. Richard standing on the bank, waiting. Then his father stopped, laying her down, like he was putting her to bed, tucking snow under her head as a pillow, undergrowth as the blanket. He stooped and kissed her on the lips.

Richard turned, looking along the empty path into the blizzard.

Then he was back and they were walking again and his father still wasn’t looking at him and, although he wanted him to, Richard didn’t blame him. They climbed back into the car, his father leaning forward so that his head was resting on the steering wheel.

“Dad? I’m so sorry…” Richard was reaching out, his fingertips, blue with cold, brushing the soft cashmere of his father’s jumper.

“Don’t.” His father pushed himself up, turning, finally looking at him, but it’s with something like hatred. “Don’t. We’re going back. We’re going to clean the house. We’re going to hide it so that you don’t go to prison for the rest of your worthlesss little life.”

“I…” Richard was crying now, hard, heavy tears. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

His father had turned the key, starting the engine.

Richard pushed himself back, looking up at his sister, realising for the first time that there were other people there, men that he couldn’t place. But he wasn’t looking at them, he was looking at his sister, and she was looking at him, and she looked frightened and there were tears in her eyes, and now he is frightened too, because he can feel her loosening the grip on his hand, so he grips her tighter.

“He never spoke to me again, Frey. I think he hated me.” Clinging onto her fingers, pushing his face into the nape of her neck. “You still love me, Frey? Don’t you?”

Chapter 51

Tom – Tuesday, 27th March – 10.47am

Freya cradled him, a small boy with a grazed knee. Looking up at Dan, at Tom, eyes pleading, just one more minute, just one more minute. And so they wait, even though time is pressing so heavily, and there is something resting, like a rock in Tom’s stomach. She rocked the boy back, fore. She was crying, silent tears streaking her cheeks, staring into the wreckage of her father’s crashed plane. Tom watched them, but it isn’t them he sees, but himself cradling Ben. Wondering what he has done to him, what the consequences of that will be. Have I taught him to be blind? Have I taught him not to face up to things because it is easier? Is it already too late?